


A *Taste* of Medieval Life

by galactic_roses



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blood Drinking, Consensual Blood Drinking, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Hand Jobs, Hypnotism, M/M, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Vampires, og vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-24 09:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20356558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galactic_roses/pseuds/galactic_roses
Summary: wanted to write a crack fic with Regis as an old-school vampire with some classic blood drinking... so this happened.Medieval knight Sir Geralt of Rivia 'accidentally' becomes involved with Count Emiel Regis.Thanks lovely beta reader Zemyr :D





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolutely crack... so expect crack! Love me some old school vamps

Sir Geralt of Rivia was beginning to sweat. He hated social events, but knights were always expected to attend, so he did, albeit reluctantly. The lace collar on his peacock blue velvet doublet itched, his velvet trousers were riding up where they shouldn’t, the lamp light reflected off the silver buttons on his doublet and shone into his sensitive eyes, and since he was surrounded by nobles and supposed to behave, he could not itch, scratch, readjust or do anything about the headache that was starting to form around his temples.

He was on the second hour of listening to nobles discussing the potential marriages of the young ladies in their respective families when he cracked. Desperate for a moment of privacy, Geralt excused himself in the polite, courtly way he had been taught, and strode across the room with long, purposeful strides. Groups of nobles parted before him, murmuring greetings as he passed and he greeted them back in a rapid pace, fake smile fixed so firmly that it felt stuck. When he reached the edge of the room, he looked around, doing his best to fade into the background until he was sure no one was looking, then he slipped through the door. The quiet and darkness in the hallway was bliss.

He wished he could have turned down the invitation he’d received, but according to the knight’s code, a dinner invitation from a Count was more important than a night of sword practice by himself. It was widely known that Sir Geralt despised social gatherings, which in turn made him all the more attractive as a guest. Having the white-haired Sir Geralt actually attend a social event was considered a very thrilling achievement indeed, and the hosts were usually very keen on showing him off. He thought that it might be a bit of a joke for some nobles, but the invitation he had received a few days ago seemed serious enough.

Sighing deeply, Geralt wandered down the hallway, hoping to find an unoccupied balcony, or even just an unshuttered window. A draft on his left cheek told him he might find something of interest in that direction, so he turned and reached for the nearest door. He pushed, and the door swung open with a quiet creak. He looked inside, making sure to check the room thoroughly. Only the wealthier lords of the land lived in their own manors, like this particular nobleman, and it would be a proper scandal if he suddenly found himself in a private room where he definitely should not be. This seemed to be a multi-purpose room of the kind that changed function depending on what you put in it. Now it was empty, but what it did have was a balcony. Geralt moved across the room, eyes focused on the open door leading outside.

He closed his eyes, drinking it in as the cool evening air hit his face like fresh water. Remembering his earlier grievances, he reached up and scratched around the lace collar, letting out a soft moan of satisfaction. 

“Oh, my,” a voice said from behind him. He spun around, mortified at being discovered in the act of scratching an itch, while standing on a balcony where he most definitely should not be. When he saw who had found him, a thrill of dread crept down the back of his neck.

The man standing in the doorway was dressed simply but impeccably, in a tightly fitted waistcoat of deep crimson velvet over a cream-colored shirt with full, gathered sleeves. When Geralt looked down he saw expertly tailored breeches and stockings, both in the same black cloth. Onyx buttons marched up the front of the waistcoat, and silver and ruby jewelry dripped from his fingers and ears. Silver buckles even winked from the tops of his shiny black shoes.

Geralt had never met the man before, but there was no doubt in his mind who he was. Sinking into a deep bow, Geralt tried to think of a quick excuse to explain his presence in the room, but his mind was suddenly a tangle of panic.

“My lord,” he mumbled.

“Please, rise,” the Count said, his voice surprisingly warm. Geralt straightened hesitantly, eyeing the nobleman with mixed anxiety and distrust. Nobles were not always the most understanding, especially when it came to unknown knights wandering around in their manor houses.

“You were so very focused on the balcony that you must not have noticed my presence,” the Count said, looking up into Geralt’s face with a quizzical expression. Geralt made sure not to meet his gaze, as was often expected, and bowed again.

“My apologies, my lord,” he said to his boots, “I was merely looking to catch a breath of fresh air.”

“I understand,” the Count said with a chuckle. “Sometimes I must simply take a break from my own gatherings as well.”

Geralt straightened in surprise, meeting the Count’s gaze. The man’s eyes were a startling shade of burgundy so dark they appeared to be black. Remembering his position, he looked down again.

“Thank you, my lord,” Geralt said.

“Oh, no thanks needed,” the Count replied easily, waving silver-encrusted fingers. A moment later he seemed to remember something, and he covered his mouth with a hand.

“I’m very sorry, I believe I forgot to introduce myself,” he said, straightening his shirt collar. “My name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, but most call me Count Regis. I am the lord of this manor.”

He held out a pale, elegant hand. Blushing slightly, Geralt took the offered fingers and kissed the appropriate ring, a heavy ruby set in silver, then he dropped the hand and stepped back.

“Sir Geralt of Rivia,” he said in turn, bowing once again. He knew he was probably over-doing it, but it was better to be told to stop bowing than to not bow enough.

“I thought you must be,” Count Regis mused. “There are very few knights with white hair.”

Geralt felt a twinge of apprehension and swallowed before asking, “You’ve heard of me, my lord?” 

“But of course,” the Count said. “Everyone has heard of the great Sir Geralt.”

Immediately uncomfortable, Geralt bowed slightly, yet again.

“I’m honored,” he murmured, eyes fixed respectfully on the middle button of the Count’s waistcoat.

“The honor is mine.”

Count Regis smiled as he spoke, and Geralt looked up in time to catch a glimpse of startlingly white teeth. He made the mistake of meeting the Count’s eyes again, and suddenly he was frozen to the spot. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, his mind reeled. A disturbing feeling crept over his skin. He couldn’t look away. For a moment he thought he saw a red glint in the dark gaze, then suddenly he could move again. Blurting out something about returning to the gathering, Geralt dipped into yet another hasty bow and practically ran from the room as politely as he could.

Geralt was practicing his sword work in the training yard a few days later when the message runner found him. The boy was panting slightly and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead, but he managed to pull himself up into a dignified stance.

“Letter for Sir Geralt of Rivia,” the boy said, holding out a folded piece of thin, expensive paper sealed with red wax. Holding back a deep sigh, Geralt cracked the wax seal and read the note.

_Count Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy requests the presence of_

_ Sir Geralt of Rivia_

_ Tomorrow evening for dinner and company._

_ Informal dress attire._

Geralt took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and opened them again.

“I accept,” he heard his traitorous mouth say.

“Very good sir,” the messenger said, bowing quickly. “I will take your reply back to the Count.”

Nodding his head absently, Geralt turned back to the training yard. He had not forgotten his last visit to Count Regis’ manor, or the odd effect the Count’s eyes had on him. Goosebumps rippled down his arms. Fine steel sang as he sheathed his sword. It needed cleaning, and he should put away the straw dummies hanging from the pillars, but all he was thinking about what he would need to do to prepare. He knew better than to dress truly informally, and luckily he had been taught exactly what nobles considered to be ‘informal dress’. His second-best doublet needed a new trim, and he needed a shave. Grumbling to himself, he headed toward his living quarters. It would take him a while to find his lord’s tailor, and he still needed to eat breakfast.

The next night found Geralt dressed in his newly trimmed doublet and breeches of a simple black cloth. He was seated at a long table in Count Regis’ dining hall, with a knight on one side of him and a lord on the other. An older noblewoman sat across from him, disapproval in every line of her stiff body. It was clear she did not appreciate her seating arrangement. Geralt hid a slightly bitter smile behind a bite of meat. If he had to be at a stuffy occasion like this, at least he could find some amusement in snooty noble discomfort. 

A sudden prickle on the back of his neck made him look up. The Count, seated at the head of the table, appeared to be watching him. He had the brief, unpleasant notion that the look in the man’s eyes had been almost… predatory. To take his mind off the feeling, he looked around at the other guests. This gathering was a bit smaller than the last one he had attended. His dislike for parties of any kind welled up in him again, and his mouth twisted into a faint grimace before he could stop it.

As if he could read Geralt’s mind, Count Regis cleared his throat and stood, and the rest of the guests followed suit.

“Let us retire to the blue sitting room,” the Count said. “There will be musicians, and wine for tasting.”

Geralt perked up at the idea of more wine, and he hoped there would be a nice, dry red. Erveluce, maybe, he could use it by now. Getting to his feet, he followed the other guests as they moved toward the mentioned room.

The blue sitting room was indeed… blue. The wallpaper was printed with small blue flowers, which matched the blue of the carpet and furniture. Even the musicians were dressed to blend in. The faint scent of something floral drifted through the air, tickling Geralt’s nose. He inhaled, trying to decide if he liked the smell or not, then he noticed the open window across the room.

As he was making his way toward the window, he noticed the Count whispering into the ear of a servant, then the fresh air stole his attention. The night was crisp and cool compared to the stifling blue room. Taking a deep breath, Geralt reached for the store of peacefulness he kept in the back of his mind, letting it soothe his anxiety and discomfort.

A gentle tap on his shoulder jolted him out of his torpor. He looked around, a little confused, and found Count Regis standing at his elbow, holding two glasses of red wine. The Count offered him one of the glasses, and Geralt took it. The shock of the gesture was even enough to make him forget to bow.

“Thank you,” he said, surprised.

“You are most welcome,” the man replied, watching Geralt with his unnerving eyes. Geralt sipped from the glass, and was pleasantly surprised.

“Erveluce,” he commented. The Count grinned, displaying his white teeth.

“The finest.”

Taking another drink, Geralt looked out the window again.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Count Regis said quietly, moving forward to stand next to him. Glancing sideways, Geralt saw the man’s profile silhouetted against the darkness. The Count had a slightly aquiline nose and high cheekbones, giving him a regal, imposing appearance. The silver in his earlobes winked in the light. He turned as Geralt looked, meeting his gaze. Geralt saw a flash of scarlet in the man’s eyes and his body froze, his mind buzzing with confusion and something that might have been fear. His skin tingled, every nerve fizzing with adrenaline.

Count Regis leaned forward slightly, staring intently into his face.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Sir Geralt?” he asked, his voice low and silky. “I want your honest opinion.”

If Geralt could have moved, he would have shivered. His jaw tensed, then he could open his mouth.

“Attending social functions is not my favorite activity,” he said, surprising himself with his frank answer. 

The Count chuckled. “I suppose I did ask for honesty.”

Geralt’s muscles loosened, and he found that he could move again. Whatever hypnotic effect the Count’s eyes had on him, it had stopped. Geralt frowned and tried to recall if he had ever felt like that facing nobility before. He took another sip from his glass.

“Do you like the wine?”

The question caught him off guard, he had almost forgotten the Count was still there. He had been thinking about the strange locking of his muscles when he met the Count’s gaze.

“It is quite nice,” he replied with a cough, having nearly inhaled the wine.

“I am glad to hear it.” The Count paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Sir Geralt, would you possibly do me the honor of accompanying me on a ride tomorrow morning? Scenery is always more enjoyable with company.”

If his fingers hadn’t been clenched around the stem of his glass, Geralt would’ve dropped his wine. He had heard the words riding, enjoyable, and company, and abruptly became quite flustered.

“Pardon?” he managed, his tongue suddenly feeling too large for his mouth. Count Regis hid a smile behind elegant fingers.

“I’d like you to come riding with me tomorrow,” he said, losing the battle with his grin. “That is, if you are not busy.”

A feeling of foreboding trickled into the back of Geralt’s mind. This Count obviously wanted something from him. He was already wealthy, and most likely had several knights in his service, so Geralt had no idea what it could be. _I guess it probably won’t hurt to say yes, _he thought. Besides, saying no was not really an option. 

“I accept your invitation,” Geralt said with a bow, making sure his wine stayed carefully upright. “Should I meet you here tomorrow morning?”

“No need,” Count Regis said as noblewoman slid over and tugged on the Count’s sleeve. The Count smiled at her before turning to Geralt again, lowering his voice as he said, “I will come to you.”

“If I can steal you for a moment…” the woman interjected, casting an odd look in Geralt’s direction. Geralt raised his eyebrows in response. The woman’s eyes were dark like the Count’s, with the same red light sparkling in their depths. Her nose was long and as sharp as a razor, and it drew attention to the angular shape of her face. The paint on her lips was red as blood. When she moved her head, Geralt could see blue and purple iridescence in the long, black braid that hung down the middle of her back. He watched the woman pull Count Regis away, noticing her willowy, thin figure, and wondered if she was involved with the Count. Shaking the thought away, Geralt waved a server down for a wine refill. Maybe more wine would help him clear his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second and last chapter of this crack fic. Hope it doesn't disappoint. It's a bit shorter than the last one, and it's also the end... Enjoy! :D

Riding with Count Regis the next morning was not as uncomfortable as Geralt thought it would be. The Count talked about various things as they rode through the woods, the topics varying from commenting on current politics to admiring the changing fall foliage. Geralt answered the man’s questions carefully, when they were asked, not wanting to speak too much about himself, but he began to relax as they rode along. By the end of the ride they were talking freely. When the Count bid him farewell and rode off, Geralt realized that he had enjoyed himself. The realization confused him. Knights were not supposed to spend time with any of the higher nobility and enjoy themselves. 

It was only a week later when the messenger found Geralt in the practice courts again. Wondering what Count Regis could possibly want this time, he took the offered note and read it with raised eyebrows. He was being invited to a dinner with the Count… alone. He shivered. The knight’s code was very specific about this kind of invitation. It would be considered an insult if he refused, so he got his formally informal clothes back out of the closet and tried not to think about what a Count could want from a knight in solitary company.

“Would you like to sample some more wine in one in the crimson sitting room?” Count Regis asked, tapping a finger against his empty wineglass and catching Geralt’s attention.

“I would enjoy that,” Geralt replied, looking at his own empty glass. He was full of delicious food and mildly drunk on some very expensive wine. The Count had spent the evening and most of the meal talking and asking Geralt trivial questions that he could easily answer, so once again he found himself feeling much more comfortable in the Count’s presence. Comfortable enough to stand and follow the other man down the hall.

Just like the blue sitting room, the crimson room was decorated and furnished in everything red. Sitting down on the couch, Geralt thought that it looked a bit like someone had splattered blood everywhere.

“Erveluce?” Count Regis asked, holding up a dark bottle.

“Please,” Geralt replied. He held up his glass. For some reason, the sight of the burgundy liquid pouring into his glass unnerved him. Trying to ignore the feeling, he drank. When he lowered his glass, the Count was watching him, the red sparkle in his eyes brighter than ever. The breath hitched in his chest as Count Regis leaned forward, his expression suddenly hungry.

“I find you simply fascinating,” the Count murmured, placing his hand on Geralt’s arm. Geralt saw that the man’s nails had suddenly sharpened into points, and fear crawled up into his mouth as he realized that he was frozen in place once again. He could barely breathe. Wide-eyed with horror, he watched as the red sparkle in the Count’s eyes spread. The man leaned even closer, reaching up to place cool fingers against the place where the pulse beat wildly in Geralt’s jugular.

“Such vivid life,” Count Regis said, his voice soft. “And your scent…” He drew close until the tip of his nose brushed lightly against Geralt’s jaw. “…Delicious.”

A sharp pain pierced the fog of panic in Geralt’s mind as the Count bit down, pointed teeth sinking into flesh as easily as if it were butter. Geralt couldn’t move, couldn’t understand what was happening, yet he could feel his blood gushing from the bite in his neck. There was no such thing as vampires, they simply did not exist… or they simply should not exist. His brain scrambled for reasonable explanations but found nothing.

The Count moved slightly, his teeth sinking deeper, and pleasure burst abruptly behind Geralt’s eyes. An involuntary moan escaped his throat as ecstasy coursed through his body, burning away the pain. He struggled against the force that held him still, trying desperately to suck air into his lungs as bliss swamped his mind. Just when it seemed like he would faint from the lack of air and the overwhelming pleasure, the Count’s teeth slipped from his neck, and he could breathe again. Inhaling gratefully, he slumped back, his muscles limp and loose.

“What unholy hell,” Geralt gasped, staring at the Count. “You— you just…”

Count Regis pulled back, wiping a trace of blood from his mouth. He looked surprised by Geralt’s reaction.

“Well, this is an unforeseen situation,” he said.

“In what way?” Geralt asked sarcastically, fear and irritation making him forget his manners. “In the way that you just… drank my blood? It even sounds ridiculous!”

The Count frowned, scratching his chin.

“You are not supposed to remember what happens,” he said.

“Not supposed to remember?” Geralt snarled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” the Count replied, reaching out to feel the pulse in Geralt’s neck again. Geralt was too tired to protest. He had realized that whatever had filled his brain with pleasure had caused his body to react accordingly. The pressure in his trousers was becoming painful.

“Hmm… I’m not sure what to do with you,” Count Regis said, dark eyes thoughtful.

“I suppose you could explain yourself,” Geralt snapped, “but I don’t think I even want an explanation.”

Realizing that he still miraculously held his wineglass, he took a shaky drink.

“I cannot just leave you like this,” the Count said, wringing his elegant hands. He stood and began to pace, looked surprisingly worried. “This has been a secret for too long…”

Geralt felt his anger drain away at the sight. He sat up, setting his wineglass onto a nearby table, and reached out a hand to the Count.

“I will not speak of it if you come sit down,” he muttered. “Otherwise, good manners dictate that I must stand as well, and I have to admit that I do not think I can do that at the moment.”

Count Regis stopped pacing and turned to look at him.

“You will not… tell?”

Geralt shook his head, and the Count moved over to drop onto the couch.

“I do not know what to do in this situation,” Count Regis confessed. “No one has ever remembered before.”

“My neck is not bleeding anymore, right?” Geralt asked him, touching the raw skin carefully. He was surprised to find no bite marks.

“Vampire saliva is a fascinating thing,” the Count said. “It stimulates pleasure sensors in the brain to sedate prey, and then heals the bite wounds afterwards to leave no trace.”

“Prey?” Geralt asked, rubbing his neck.

“I apologize,” Count Regis said, smiling sheepishly, “it is the most… appropriate word.”

“That makes sense… I guess.”

Geralt let out a tiny groan as he realized that the pressure in his breeches had not subsided.

“I see I have created yet another problem,” the Count said, following Geralt’s gaze.

“You could call it that,” Geralt replied, gritting his teeth and watching as Count Regis fidgeted for a moment before speaking.

“Allow me to help.”

“What?”

“I can help you fix that,” the Count said, his eyes flicking downward. 

“This is entirely inappropriate,” Geralt said quietly, blushing as the Count chuckled, “but I accept.”

“I will not freeze you this time, I promise,” Count Regis said, moving closer and gently tipping Geralt’s head to the side. “But please do not wiggle.”

Geralt was expecting the pain this time, but not the rush of adrenaline that came with it. He moaned, reaching up to tangle his fingers in the Count’s salt and pepper hair, and the pleasure began to build inside him again. A hand fumbled at the laces on his trousers, and in his hazy state he could not tell whose hand it was. When it wrapped around him, he felt his body tense, every nerve like a live wire. The Count bit deeper, pumping the hand that gripped him, and ecstasy spiked. The mixture of pain and bliss drove Geralt to climax, his release spilling over the Count’s fingers.

“That is much better when I agree to it,” Geralt panted, his head spinning wildly. Drawing back, Count Regis wiped his mouth and grinned, showing white, pointed fangs.

“I shall remember that,” he said. “Now, let me get you a glass of water. You have lost quite a bit of blood.”

Lying back on the couch, Geralt stared up at the ceiling. Things had taken a very improbable turn, but he thought that maybe he wouldn’t mind a little improbability in his life. After all, what knight would refuse a Count?


End file.
